


Misguided Ghosts

by captainshellhead, vibraniumstark



Category: Avengers (Comics), Marvel 616
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Getting Together, Ghost Sex, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Not Really Character Death, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-05
Updated: 2017-11-05
Packaged: 2019-01-30 00:46:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12642696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainshellhead/pseuds/captainshellhead, https://archiveofourown.org/users/vibraniumstark/pseuds/vibraniumstark
Summary: Tony dies, or so everyone thinks. Steve doesn't take it well.





	Misguided Ghosts

**Author's Note:**

> The first of our Stony Trumps Hate charity fics, finally. The prompt was "ghost blowjobs" because our friends are the worst. One down, two to go! Stay posted.

Tony watched the cerulean halo around the asteroid burst in a brilliant flash. He diverted auxiliary power to his jet boots, willing them to go faster, faster. Cap’s voice came through his communicator, tinny but clear of static.

“Talk to me, Iron Man. How does it look?”

According to his calculations, between the mass and the angle of entry of the asteroid, it wasn’t going to burn up in atmosphere. It was headed directly for the city, hundreds of pounds of rock hurtling towards Earth at tens of thousands of miles per hour. 

“Nothing that I can’t handle,” he said.

He didn’t need to stop it; he just needed to break it apart at a high enough altitude that the remaining pieces had time to burn up. His HUD flashed as he scaned for the best points to focus his fire. Three candidates appeared, and he quickly scaned for which projected strategies would risk the least collateral damage.

Tony followed the HUD’s guidance, aiming a short burst of repulsor fire at the asteroid.

“I’m getting some strange energy readings,” Tony said. 

“Is there a problem?” Tony didn’t answer, scanning through the data flooding the screen. This had to be some kind of artifact, feedback that his sensors didn’t know how to interpret, because otherwise—

“Steve, get back!”

A high-pitched wail, eerily hollow, cut through the air. The asteroid shuddered and cracked, and then exploded with an enormous shock wave. The energy of the blast momentarily knocked out his systems, plunging him into darkness.

When Tony regained his senses his alarms were screaming at him, a disorienting flash of colors and sound through the interference from the blast. Only his left hand repulsor was working, his right boot spitting feeble, stabilizing bursts just often enough to keep him from spiraling insanely out of control.

“Reboot!” Tony shouted over the deafening squeal of feedback spitting out of his communicator. The HUD only flickered a splash of color in response, but he could feel the jet boots sputtering, attempting to get up to full power.

The suit plummeted to the Earth, smoking and sparking brilliantly, and slammed into the sidewalk so hard that it shattered the windows of the nearest storefront. Tony grit his teeth, but the resultant impact still knocked the wind out of him. He gasped, but somehow the suit managed to absorb the impact. His ears were ringing, and he squeezed his eyes shut to fight off a wave of dizziness. The vertigo confused him. He was pretty sure he hadn’t hit his head. 

Tony sat up gingerly and ran his fingers through his hair, looking for lumps. 

“Tony!” He glanced up when Steve shouted his name.

Tony had never seen Steve run so fast. He practically broke pavement he was sprinting so quickly, sliding into the crater as though he was stealing home plate.

“Calm down! I’m fine,” Tony said. He had a hard landing, sure, but Steve was definitely overreacting. “Just a little vertigo.” Steve ignored him, scrabbling the last feet over concrete chunks until Steve was nearly on top of him, reaching for him.

And then his hand disappeared, passing through Tony’s chest like he wasn’t even there. 

“Jesus!” Tony yelp, pulling back from his touch, but again Steve ignored him, focused on the armor. Tony looked down at his hands, for the first time realizing that they were bare. Where were his gauntlets? Tony shuffled a few feet away, until he was sitting in the street, watching as Steve ripped at the melted remains of the armor’s faceplate, gloves smoking from the heat of the smouldering metal. 

“You’re going to burn your hands,” Tony said, but Steve couldn’t hear him. He was having an out of body experience, he was pretty sure. That was a thing, wasn’t it?

Steve managed to get his fingers underneath one warped corner of the faceplate. It took all of his strength to tear it away. The force of pulling it loose sent it flying several meters away, where it nearly took the top off a fire hydrant. Steve was kneeling over the suit, but his arms had dropped to his sides, the desperation to get the faceplate open entirely vanished. Tony leaned forward to get a look at what Steve was seeing. The most horrible, broken sound tore its way out of Steve’s throat, and Tony instinctively reached for him, but he couldn’t touch, fingers passing through Steve’s shoulder, ghostlike. 

This was wrong. This had to be a dream, or maybe a nightmare, because Steve couldn’t hear him, he couldn’t touch him, and when he finally looked inside his helmet he understood why Steve was shaking.

There was nothing left but melted slag and ash.

 

 

 

The Avengers held a funeral that following Tuesday. 

Tony was ashamed to admit how surprised he was by the number of people who came. Maybe he shouldn't have thought so little of them, but then...well, it was strange to see so many people come just for him. They didn't bother with a casket. There was no point, with nothing to put inside it, and none of them were the types to keep with tradition just for the sake of appearances. There were hundreds of pictures of him to choose from: official Stark Industries photo shoots, galas and commemorative pictures, images from interviews and television appearances. None of them were used. The table at the front of the room was decorated with group photos, shots of him with the Avengers, candid photos with genuine smiles, not the practiced and posed media Tony Stark, but the real Tony.

It really was a beautiful service, the sort that Tony hadn't known that he'd wanted until now. It was perfect. 

Except that he wasn't dead. 

He was fairly certain, anyway. Tony had been dead before, and it had been nothing like this. Dying had been like falling asleep: one moment he was fading, and the next he woke confused, with months having passed him by. This was different. He was awake. He was _here_ , only no one else seemed to realize it. 

Tony followed Steve during the reception. He looked terrible. His handsomely pressed suit did nothing to hide the redness in his eyes, the hunch in his shoulders. He hadn’t slept at all, restlessly wandering through the Mansion for hours after dusk. Steve and Tony had both haunted the halls last night, but Steve was by far worse for it. 

“You should rest,” Tony said, knowing he would go unheard. Steve was standing next to Jan and Jen Walters, arms crossed in front of his chest, only half listening to their quiet conversation. 

Jan rubbed Steve’s shoulder comfortingly. It was enough to draw him out of his thoughts, and he hummed quietly in acknowledgement.

"You look terrible," Jan said. 

"Thanks," Steve said. He smiled at her, but it was a pitiful attempt. The smile didn't reach his eyes. She put a hand on his elbow and squeezed, gently. 

"When was the last time you slept?" she asked. Steve rubbed a hand over his eyes but didn't answer. That response was enough for Jan. She carefully untangled his arms where they were crossed in front of his chest, then brushed the imaginary wrinkles out of the front of his suit. Steve looked rough, even in the immaculately tailored suit. His exhaustion was obvious. "Go home," Jan said. "Get some rest. I'll deal with the condolences and hand shaking. That doesn't have to all be on your shoulders."

"And what about you?" he asked. 

"I have Hank," she said. "And...I can't imagine how you feel right now, but you're not alone, okay?"

For a moment Steve looked as though he might argue. His dedication to the well-being of his team momentarily warred with his exhaustion. Finally, thankfully, he nodded. 

The mansion was empty when Steve returned. He stood silently in the foyer, staring forward into the darkness. The deafening tick of the clock in the living room seemed to drown out the silence, and after several empty seconds he moved again. Steve carefully toed off his shoes and left them lying next to the entryway, haphazard. He didn't bother turning on the lights. Tony followed quietly behind him, wondering where Steve might be headed, but he only made a bee-line for his bedroom. 

Steve through his tie on the floor, tossed his suit jacket over the chair in the corner, and then moved to sit on the bed. He rubbed his hands over his face, exhaustion clear in the tension of his shoulders. But then something in his posture changed, and he hunched forward; his hands were no longer blearily rubbing at tired eyes. He was wiping away tears. 

Silent sobs wracked Steve's frame. Tony's gut twisted viciously, and he felt suddenly, horribly helpless. Tony sat down on the bed next to him, wrapped his arms around Steve's shoulders—where Steve's shoulders _would_ be if he could touch him—and leaned his forehead against the ghost of Steve's back. 

"I'm so sorry," Tony whispered, choking on the bitter words. 

Steve shook with grief, but he was too tired to cry for long. He laid sideways and slid underneath the covers without bothering to take off the rest of his suit, dress suit rumpled and suspenders askew. Steve buried his face in his pillow to block out the light pouring in from the midday sun, and committed himself to fitful sleep.

 

 

Steve was tormenting himself. 

Tony could see no other explanation for why he had walked—phased?—through Steve's bedroom door to find him contemplating a fragment of the asteroid that had started this whole mess. 

And maybe worst of all, deep down Steve must have known how unhealthy this was. A light rap on the door was enough to startle him out of his thoughts. He quickly tugged his bedside drawer open and stored the fragment of stone inside, out of view. Tony frowned. 

"Come in," he called, once the drawer was safely closed. The knob clicked as Carol let herself inside. She paused in the doorway to turn on the overhead lights. 

 

“How are you holding up?” Carol asked.

“Same as everyone else,” Steve said.

“You know it’s not the same,” she said quietly. Steve’s jaw twitched, but he said nothing. Carol squeezed his ankle and sat down next to him on the bed. “Have you talked to anyone?” she asked.

“I...no,” he admitted.

Carol sighed but didn’t say anything. Tony glanced between them, curious, wondering what Carol had meant by that. Steve seemed to know exactly what she was talking about. Maybe it was just because he was the only one who had been at the scene. Steve was stubborn like that, always blaming himself for things he had no control over. 

The wound was still fresh for all of them. A few hours ago, Tony had overheard Carol and Wanda discussing their plans for Steve’s birthday. It was like a punch to the gut for him. They were trying not to put their lives on hold, and in a way he was grateful, but there was an enormous elephant in the room no one was willing to approach. Tony’s room and workshop remained untouched. None of the Avengers were up to going through it, not yet, but while they weren’t ready to move on just yet, time had no such qualms. Tony wondered if the restaurant Steve liked would call when they missed their reservation, or if they’d see the news and realize Tony Stark wouldn’t be coming. It seemed like such a silly thing to worry about, in light of his current predicament. A part of him hoped they would call, just so that Steve would know he hadn’t forgotten. He doubted any of them would be ready to clear out Tony’s rooms just yet, so his gift for Steve, hidden away in one of the drawers of his workbench, would sit to gather dust.

He suddenly felt like a voyeur, watching as a heavy silence settled over the room. Tony backed away, fading through the wall as easily as he glided through the air, and left them to their mourning.

 

 

 

It was three in the morning, and Steve had only just drifted off. Tony knew he wasn’t sleeping much lately, and when he did it was in unrestful starts and stops. He sat at the edge of Steve’s bed, half turned to face him. Steve’s fists clenched the sheets; already his sleep was unrestful.

 

"Steve please," Tony begged him. "Don't do this to yourself. It’s… _I'm_ not worth it."

His grief would kill him slowly. Steve was too good of a man to let this go, to not blame himself, as though there was anything he could have done to prevent this. Tony had always has an early expiration date. Between his heart problems and the hazards of superheroing, it was only a matter of time. Could Steve see that? He was better off forgetting all about him. 

Tony reached out as though to brush a stray hair from Steve's forehead. He wished he could do something, wake him or soothe the nightmares, but all he could do was watch as his hand ghosted incorporeal through Steve's hair. Tony wanted to cry. He wanted desperately for Steve to wake. He wanted to take it all back, for this to have never happened to them, and most of all he wanted Steve to stop hurting. 

Instead, Steve did something entirely unexpected: Tony's hand brushed over his cheek, and Steve shivered. 

Tony stared at him, shocked into stillness; he reached out again, tracing his thumb down Steve’s cheek, and drew a sharp breath when Steve leaned into his touch.

"Oh my god," Tony breathed. "You felt that."

Steve didn't respond, still asleep and dreaming, the deafening silence of the room Tony's only answer. 

He needed Steve to hear him. Tony reached out again, cautiously framing his face with his palms. 

Steve was still half-asleep, caught between the nightmare he'd left and the vision of Tony leaning over him. Steve closed his eyes, perhaps not sure that what he was seeing was real, hoping to preserve the imagine in this mind just a bit longer. Tony tried to grab his hand, but it was like grasping air. Steve still reached for him as though he'd felt his touch, eyes fluttering open again. 

"Tony," he whispered.

"I'm here, Steve," Tony said. 

"I'm dreaming?" he asked. 

"No," Tony said. "No, Steve, this is real. I'm here. I'm not dead, Steve, I...god, you don't know how happy I am that you can _see_ me."

"You're gone," Steve said. 

"I'm not gone! I don't know what happened, but I'm not gone, please, Steve! Maybe Reed, or Stephen, someone can figure this out, but you have to remember that this isn't just a dream—"

Steve leaned up and cut him off with a kiss. It shocked Tony into losing his train of thought, the words stalled in his throat. The point where their lips touched felt electric and strange. Tony couldn't actually feel Steve's skin, his breath, but it was as though the air was charged between them, like the phantom contact breached the veil between them. 

"Steve, wait," Tony said. It killed him to pull away, and Steve grasped for him as though he could somehow pull him back. He felt a bit hysterical as he complained, "Don't distract me, this is important."

"Please," Steve begged. "Tony, please. You have no idea how much I've wanted the chance..."

Steve trailed off as his voice broke on the words. Tony leaned down and cupped his hands around Steve's cheeks, sending another shiver down Steve's spine. He kissed him, soft, barely there. "It's okay," he said. "I'm here."

Touching him was like passing his fingers through a warm mist. Tony couldn’t feel his skin, not really, but the space wasn’t entirely empty, either. There was a strange electricity between them, and his fingers felt alight with it. Steve’s breath caught when Tony kissed him, clearly feeling _something_ from Tony’s touch ghosting across his skin. He could only guess how it felt. To Tony it was a bare whisper of sensation, but Steve’s breath was already coming in short gasps, pupils blown. He looked at Tony awed, reverential, and shuddered at his every touch. Steve shoved at his sheets, skin overwarm. 

“Please stay,” he said. His voice was soft, pleading, but his motions were jerky as he stripped out of his underwear. Tony’s mouth went dry, drinking in the sight of Steve naked and desperate beneath him.

He raked his nails down Steve’s chest, gently, and reveled in the way it made Steve writhe. Steve’s skin was flushed pink, and his stomach quivered as he tried to keep his breathing under control. One sloppy kiss, then another, a trail of them leading down his thigh, until Steve was barely able to hold still beneath him. Finally, when he was absolutely quivering in anticipation, Tony leaned down and took Steve into his mouth. Steve gasped, jerked like he’d been burned, eyes wild. 

“ _Ah!_ Tony, that’s—” his lips worked soundlessly, only an incoherent noise managing to form in his throat, “That’s, ah, that’s…”

His words failed him. Steve reached as though to touch him, but his hand only passed through Tony’s forearm, grasping at nothing. Steve made a frustrated sound, hands twitching around empty air, desperate to touch. His hands fell ineffectual at his sides, tugging the sheets in a white-knuckled grip. He thrusted his hips up, but there was nothing for him to thrust into. Their pace was Tony’s to set. Steve could feel his touch, but couldn’t touch back, couldn’t respond or react, no choice but to lie back at take what Tony gave him.

Tony rubbed his thumbs soothingly over Steve’s hip bones, delighting in the shivers it sent through him. Tony was far from new to this, but the sensation was strange, touching without touching, a ghostly whisper on Steve’s skin. He wondered if Steve felt the same energy he felt, or something else. Goosebumps prickled on his skin as Tony went down on him. 

Flushed and sleep warm, Steve twitched like Tony’s touch lit a fire in him. He was amazed how noisy Steve was, though he clenched his jaw to hide it. Tony wondered whether that was normal for him, or if it was only the strange sensations that put him over the edge. He wanted to find out. Wished he could find out, someday. 

Steve’s breath was ratcheting faster, white-knuckled fingers popping stitches on the bedding in an effort to hold still. Tony hollowed his cheeks and pressed a firm hand on Steve’s stomach to hold him still. His skin felt hot against the twitching muscles in his abdomen, and Tony could see the moment Steve started slipping. He came on his thigh as Tony teased him though his orgasm, making a mess of the sheets. He leaned up on his elbows so that he could get a good look at Steve’s face. The tension bled out of him, and Tony shifted to lay by his side. Tony stayed there for a moment with his head resting on his forearm. If he shifted to lean on Steve, he was sure he would pass right through him.

Steve had one arm tossed over his eyes, panting. He huffed a quiet, mirthless laugh. Tony leaned up to meet his gaze.

"What's funny?" Tony asked. 

"...wish you were real," Steve murmured. 

"Wh—Steve, I _am_ real," Tony said. He cast about for a way to prove it to him. "Listen to me,” he whispered, cupping Steve’s face in his hands. “Tomorrow morning go down to my lab and open the second drawer of my lab bench. There's a gift in there for you. For your birthday. And when you find it you _promise me_ that you will believe that this is real."

"Mhmm," Steve hummed in response, drifting already. 

"Steve," Tony whispered. "Steve."

It was no use. He'd already drifted back to sleep. Tony leaned back on his hands and watched the steady rise and fall of his chest. The clock on the nightstand ticked over to three in the morning, and Tony bit his lip. There was nothing to do now but wait. 

 

 

Steve, god damn him, chose today of all days to sleep in. 

Tony was near ripping his hair out with anxiety when he heard Steve's breath hitch. His fingers rasped against the sheets as he rolled onto his side to escape the sunlight shining into his eyes through the half-open blinds. 

"Finally," Tony said, but Steve ignored him. 

Steve opened his eyes, stared at the ceiling, and then groaned. He rolled over and buried his face in his pillow.

"Get it together, Rogers," he mumbled. 

"What? No!" Tony shouted. Steve rolled up to sitting and scrubbed a hand over his face, a frustrated and jerky motion. Tony wished he could smack him upside the head, and damn did he try. "Hey, remember what I told you last night? Steve. Ugh!"

Steve scratched the back of his neck and snatched a pair of sweatpants off the floor. He sat for a long moment, quiet, hand over his mouth, before he forced himself to stand up. In the hall, Tony could hear the other Avengers milling about, going about starting their morning. Steve went to join them as he usually did. Tony didn't even bother going through the motions of following Steve normally, walking directly through the wall to cut in front of him. He waved his arms in front of Steve's face. He couldn't see him. 

Normally, Steve would start his morning with a run. HIs schedule had been a little off-kilter, lately. Today he kicked his sneakers aside as he passed and made a bee-line for the kitchen. Without Tony around to demolish it, there was still plenty of coffee in the cupboards. He set the pot brewing and went about making breakfast as though it was any other morning. 

It was excruciating. 

Tony followed Steve around the kitchen, reaching out to see if he could touch him, talking about nothing in particular, just in case he could hear. Two eggs sizzled merrily in the pan, and Tony was sure he’d have cooked a few more if someone hadn’t forgotten to add eggs to the grocery list. The coffee smelled burnt, like someone had been messing with the settings again. Steve would never be able to tell the difference, with the ungodly amount of cream and sugar he added. Tony would give anything to join him.

Steve banged around in the sink for a moment, clearing room to set his dirty dishes. Then he turned, and he froze. Tony followed Steve's gaze, and his stomach swooped. Steve was staring quietly at the door to Tony's workshop, lost in thought. 

"You remember," Tony said, heart pounding in his chest. He reached out as though to grab Steve’s hand. "Come on, Steve. Go inside."

Steve shook his head at himself, a rueful look on his face. Tony swore.

"No!" Tony shouted. "Turn around!" Even screaming at the top of his lungs, he knew that Steve couldn't hear him. Steve didn't stop, shaking his head at himself. He thought he was imagining things, that he was inventing this in his grief. This was unfair. It was _torture_. If Tony was dead, really truly dead, then he would want nothing more than for Steve to move on, and be happy. But he _wasn't_ dead, and here Tony was, stuck in this horrible limbo, haunting his every move, twisting the knife of his grief in Steve's dreams. Tony threw his arms around him, wishing desperately that he could touch him and tell him that everything would be all right.

Steve stopped dead in his tracks.

He whirled on his heel and stared down the empty hallway. Steve's eyes were wild, searching, and for a moment Tony _swore_ that his gaze settled on him, pinning him to the spot. 

His feet sounded hollow on the hardwood floor. 

He took the stairs two at a time. 

He barely paused to mash the entry code into the keypad at the workshop door.

Steve pulled open the drawer, and there it was: carefully wrapped in blue paper, bound with a hastily tied ribbon. Steve dropped to his knees with a white-knuckled grip on the drawer handle. He stared, disbelieving. He looked fragile, like he might shatter. 

And then he glanced up, and though Tony knew he couldn’t see him, his gaze went directly to where Tony stood. Steve reached for his phone.

 

_Epilogue_

 

Warm fingers trailed down Tony’s spine, rousing him from sleep. He huffed a quiet breath and burrowed deeper into his pillow. 

“I’m here,” Tony mumbled. The fingers stopped, settled on the small of his back. He would have been annoyed, if not for the way Steve’s fingers tightened, just slightly, around the fabric. “So let me sleep.”

Beside him, he could feel the bed shift as Steve chuckled. 

“Sorry,” Steve said. “Good morning.”

Nothing but darkness peeked from behind their curtains. The clock on the nightstand read a little past six in the morning. “Not until the sun is up,” Tony said. 

The bed dipped low as Steve shifted closer, draping one arm over him. His breath feathered the back of Tony’s neck, sending shivers through him that reached all the way to his toes. Tony allowed himself to drift, warm, comfortable, as Steve held him tight.


End file.
